


Doors

by Elizabeth Lowry (Suz)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:37:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suz/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Lowry





	Doors

**DOORS**

By Elizabeth Lowry

 

 

Even falling wasn’t fast enough. The ground came closer in excruciating millimeters, each nanosecond of continued life an agonizing pain. Fasterfasterfaster beat his heart. Nomorenomorenomore thundered his head.

And then it was done.

 

 

Starsky poked at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.  He loosened something, then squatted to get a closer look. He picked up a yellowed, pebble-like object and examined it.

“Hey, Wang!” Starsky called. “I think I found a tooth!”

“Bag it!” called back Wang, who was bagging a collection a grass-blood-and-dirt sample for analysis.

Starsky pulled a plastic bag from his hip pocket and bagged the tooth. He stood as his partner approached.

Hutch leaned his head back and looked at the top of the house. “60 feet?” he guessed.

Starsky nodded his agreement. “Did you know, you can jump from about the third floor of a building and live, but anything higher and you’re mush.”

Hutch switched his gaze to Starsky.

“Unless you hit a tree or pedestrian or something,” Starsky continued, meeting Hutch’s eyes. “Then it sort of breaks your fall.”

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t even want to know where you picked that up.”

“And more men than women choose violent ways to kill themselves,” Starsky continued, undeterred, “like shooting themselves or jumping off buildings. Women mostly take pills.”

Hutch absorbed the information, then ignored it. “Anyone get an I.D. on the victim yet?”

“Not yet,” Starsky answered. “All he had on him were jeans and a t-shirt. Could be anybody.”

Hutch’s gaze swept the backyard of the house. “This gets on the news again, we’re just going to have more copycat jumpers. And they’ll all be headed for this place.”

“Dobey will have to post uniforms 24 hours solid,” Starsky agreed. “Who knew so many people in this city wanted to kill themselves by jumping off the roof of a 50-year old, million-dollar home?”

Hutch began a slow walk around the backyard. Four flags stuck out of the now-trampled grass and weeds. Four flags of varying distance from the house itself, but not so far back as to indicate any of the jumpers had made an attempt to put any kind of graceful trajectory on their leaps. Soon a fifth flag would be added.

Starsky walked along with Hutch. The enormity of the house never ceased to amaze him. Three stories, and an attic on top of that; huge fancy doors and windows— _and that molding!_ he could hear his mother say. Personally, he liked the staircases. Hardwood, with banisters that cried out to be slid down. Bedrooms, bathrooms, studies, pantries—so many rooms! What he couldn’t have done with all that space when he was a kid. Hiding places, secret clubs, army forts and rocket ships!

Hutch was more interested in the socio-economic aspects of the mansion. The house’s address was Los Angeles proper, but the neighborhood was turning into a juxtaposition of the wealthy versus the impoverished. A few blocks to the southwest was the University of Southern California—the **_U_** niversity of **_S_** poiled **_C_** hildren. Established back when the neighborhood was rich and tony, it was close to downtown L.A., but not too close.  Now, go south a little ways on Figueroa, and you hit Watts. South Central. The insurance companies red-lining the zip codes down there because the faces had turned dark. The moneyed were abandoning the area for classier environs—Malibu, Beverly Hills, the Hollywood Hills. In another 5 years, Hutch predicted, real estate was going to price itself out of the market. Or at least the average person’s market.

This particular house had been abandoned about a year ago. Ownership was murky, titles were missing, tax records were misplaced. The Post Office had stopped delivering 8 months ago. Not a stick of furniture had been left in the building, not a drape, not a light bulb. Oddly enough, the home had been ignored by vandals and the homeless. The windows were all intact and the locks unbroken. It might have appeared inhabited had the grass and trees not been overtaken by weeds and other undesirable growth.

The oddest characteristic of the house, however, was the recent interest of suicidal citizens in jumping off its roof.

The pair completed their circuit and stopped just outside the mud porch. Again, their heads turned upward, to the dormer window—opened—from which the latest jumper had taken flight. “Makes me dizzy,” Starsky muttered.

“Makes me tired,” Hutch said. “Team’s leaving. Shall we do another walk-through of the house?”

“Why not,” Starsky’s nasal tone became sarcastic. “We’ve only been through it four times before. We might find a new dustball or cobweb.”

“Long as we don’t find any more jumpers,” Hutch said.

 

 

Hutch was attempting to open the front door. The knob barely turned as he tried twisting it. He began pulling as he twisted.

“You didn’t get it unlocked,” Starsky advised. “Here, let me try the key.”

Hutch released the knob and stepped back, handing the key to Starsky. Starsky flipped it once for effect, then inserted the flat metal and turned. It felt as if the catch had been released, but the knob still wouldn’t budge. Starsky turned the key and twisted the knob at the same time, finally coordinating the disengagement of the lock. The door opened.

Starsky stepped aside and motioned to Hutch to enter. They moved through the entryway into the house. A familiar giant staircase greeted them, centered in the middle of the room.

 “Upstairs or downstairs?” Hutch asked.

Starsky looked around. “Downstairs.”

“Okay,” agreed Hutch. “You look around down here, I’ll look around just up there, and I’ll meet you on the third floor.”

“You mean the attic?” Starsky asked.

Hutch moved toward the staircase. “No, the attic is the fourth floor. There’s a third floor underneath that.”

“Not in Europe,” Starsky muttered, ambling off toward the room on the left. Hutch shot him a look.

Hutch took the stairs to the second floor landing and made a right, into one of the many bedrooms. The room was empty—as it had been since his first walk-through, one window looking out from the front of the house. Hardwood floors, as in the foyer and dining room. Intricate molding. Hutch moved carefully to a door on the opposite wall, his boots tapping as he walked. He placed his hand on the doorknob, turned the knob clockwise, and pushed in the door.

Same bathroom as before. The light from the bedroom window didn’t reach into the bathroom, so Hutch switched on his flashlight. Hutch used the mirror to bounce his light and illuminate the toilet as he stood in the doorway.

One old-fashioned flush toilet with a chain pull. One sink. No shower or bath. No cabinets. A roll of toilet paper skewered by a spindle.

“dammit, i told you to hang the shit sheets so they fall away from the wall, not against it!”

Hutch spun around at the familiar, angry voice, pin pricks of adrenaline shooting up his arms. His flashlight scoured the bedroom, but it was still empty. The light trembled the tiniest bit as it traveled the sunlight room.

Hutch tilted his head and listened. Nothing. He took a tentative step into the bedroom. Still nothing. He tried to slow down his heartbeat, regain his calm.

He swung the light back into the bathroom and spotlighted the toilet paper roll. The sheets were hanging down against the wall. Certainly not the way he’d been taught to replace a roll. No, certainly not the way he’d been brought up. Someone should fix that before someone got into trouble….

“goddamit, you shithead, fix that roll!” the voice ordered again.

Hutch flinched instinctively, bracing for the ensuing blow. It sent him crashing to the floor, pain exploding at the smack his shoulder took as he hit the floorboards. He curled protectively, and rolled toward the far wall.

For a few moments all Hutch could hear was the hard beat of his heart. He slowly uncurled, his flashlight held up defensively.

No one was there.

Hutch lifted himself to a sitting position. He swung the light around, more as a warning than as an illumination source. Slowly he rose to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the ache. Hutch took a shaky step forward, then another, into the bedroom.

No one there, either.

_What the hell?_ Hutch thought. _What am I, hallucinating? Having a flashback?_ He moved to the middle of the room. His shoulder throbbed. _Shadows and suicides and spooks. And I’m not focusing because we’ve been through this house so many times before. Concentrate, and my mind won’t wander._

“Hutch!” Starsky’s voice startled him.

Hutch found his voice quickly. “What?” He began walking toward the hallway. “Find something?” His step quickened. He headed downstairs.

 

 

Starsky watched Hutch move up the stairs, then looked around the foyer. He stopped his circling, facing the front door. Right or left? Starsky went left. He took the doorknobs of the double doors in his hands and twisted. The knobs gave easily, but the doors didn’t budge. Starsky pushed a little on the left door, then put some hip into it. The door finally gave and he stumbled into the room.

The room was empty of furnishings—no surprise. A bit of light from the late afternoon sun flowed in from the front window. A creak caught Starsky’s attention, and he swung  toward the back of the room. He could make out what appeared to be a person, sitting in a rocking chair, facing the far wall. Surprised, Starsky took a step toward the figure. “’Scuse me,” he said. “Police.” Starsky caught a glimpse of long, brown hair. The figure seemed to be a woman. “Hello?” Starsky took another step forward. He was sure now it was a woman in the high-backed chair. “Hello,” Starsky said a little louder. He reached into his pocket for his badge.

There was no response. Starsky took one more step forward. He studied the figure. A woman in a rocking chair. Rocking. What was she doing here?

Starsky moved still further into the room. “Uh, Police,” He held up his badge as authentication. The woman didn’t turn around, but kept rocking.

Starsky walked up to the chair. As he got closer he could see the woman was naked. And against her breast lay a baby. The baby lay protected in the woman’s arms, nursing contentedly, making soft suckling noises. The woman finally looked up at him.

Starsky blinked. “Who are you?” he spoke softly. “Do you live here? Are you all right?”

The woman smiled, then looked back down at the baby. The baby rested on her still swollen abdomen, supported by her arms, underneath her engorged breasts. Starsky squatted beside them.

“I’m a police officer,” he repeated. “This is an abandoned house, and you really can't be here. My partner and I can take you somewhere where you’ll be taken care of.” He started to shoulder out of his jacket.

The woman remained silent, slipped her nipple from the baby’s mouth, and suddenly handed the baby to Starsky.

Starsky nearly lost his balance as he clutched at the baby. The jacket slipped back onto his shoulder and he stood up, the infant in his arms. A warmth suffused his body, making him feel flushed and a little dizzy. The baby was small, but not undernourished. Tiny rolls of fat encased his arms and legs. Unsure of how to hold the child, Starsky felt an instinct to place the head against his shoulder. But the baby was so small Starsky was afraid he might just shoot him up and over his shoulder. Instead, he cradled the child, holding the baby’s head next to his heart. He was glad he had on one of his cloth jackets today, not one of his stiff, rough, leather jackets.

The baby snuggled in. So much dark hair! Starsky thought. Do babies have that much hair when they’re born? He dropped his face down toward the baby and smelled the head. So sweet, he thought. And his skin, so soft and so smooth. Starsky’s thumb caressed the boy’s chubby arm. He bent forward again, kissing the child’s forehead. A funny hollow formed in the pit of his stomach. This child is so beautiful, he thought. So helpless. Starsky was overwhelmed by a desire to protect this baby. He looked down at the mother.

She was smiling up at him, encouraging him. Starsky smiled back.

He gently rocked the baby for a few moments more, humming low in his throat, aware that something was filling his heart in a place that he’d never even been conscious of. The baby began to squirm, and Starsky handed him back to his mother.

“Stay here,” Starsky said. “I’ll take care of you.”

Starsky walked back to the parlor doorway, grabbing hold of the jamb and facing toward the staircase. “Hutch!” he called up the stairs.

“What?” Hutch called back. “Find something?” His footsteps started toward the stairs.

“Yeah,” Starsky replied. “I found somebody. A woman and a baby. Alive,” he added as an afterthought.

Starsky turned and re-entered the room. He peered into the dusky room. No mother, no child—in fact, no rocking chair. Starsky looked back out into the foyer, then again into the parlor. He took a step back into the room. One window, unopened. One doorway, and he was in it. Empty, just as it had been before. He walked quickly around the room, using the flashlight to search the darkened wall and ceiling corners. Satisfied he hadn’t missed anything, Starsky left the room to search the back of the house.

Where had they gone?

 

 

Hutch found his voice. “What?” He began walking toward the hallway. “Find something?” His step quickened. He headed downstairs.

 “Yeah,” Starsky replied. “I found somebody. A woman and a baby. Alive.”

Hutch pounded down to the first floor. To the right of the stairs was a corridor leading back to the kitchen and pantry. To the left was a corridor leading back to the dining room. The double doors on his immediate left opened into a parlor/living room. The double doors on his immediate right opened into a library/study.

 “Starsk?” Hutch called. There was no answer. He strode over to the parlor doorway and looked back inside “Starsk!” Hutch called out again. No answer.

Hutch opened the front door and looked outside. Starsky wasn’t at the Torino. “Starsky!” A noise caught his attention, and he turned back inside the house.

Hutch quickly moved to the library doors exactly opposite the parlor doors. He tried the knobs, found them locked. A few quick twists on the knobs didn’t help. Hutch slipped a hand into his jeans pocket to see if he had anything that might help. The change was rattling when he heard the noise again. Hutch leaned closer to the door, putting his ear against the thick wood. “Starsky?” he called. He was sure he heard something behind the door. “Starsky, are you in there?”

The adrenaline surged again, and Hutch grabbed at the doorknobs. This time the doors opened, with an unexpected ease that threw him off balance and nearly sent him to his knees. He rushed into the room, flashlight searching frantically for his partner in the dimly lit room.

“are you supposed to be in here?” The voice was soft, the tone even, but the question was an absolute threat.

Hutch wheeled. There was no one in the room. Sweat began to slip down his temples.

“i said,” the voice was a pitch lower now, more menacing, “are you supposed to be in this room?”

The familiar voice was coming from just outside the room. Hutch made no move toward it. There were no other doors out of the room; the window was the only other means of escape. But he knew from previous explorations of the house that the windows were sealed shut, and the panes were made of heavy glass that would not break easily.

The sound of metal from outside the room. A belt being unbuckled. Hutch heard the hiss of the belt being pulled from around a waistband. And finally the slap of leather against leather as the belt was doubled and pulled tight.

Sweat formed on Hutch’s upper lip. His back stiffened, his grip on the flashlight tightened.

my house. my rules. my room, the voice continued. your punishment.

## Hutch’s jaw clenched. He took a step forward. His boot made a hollow thud on the floor. Hutch took another step toward the door. Then another. His heart pounded painfully against his sternum. Two more step. Two more again. Then five in quick succession and he was outside the room.

His head began to ache and Hutch remembered to breathe. With great effort he turned his head to the right. No one there. He looked over to his left. Nothing.

The library doors closed behind him.

“Starsky!” Hutch suddenly shouted into the darkness.

 

 

Starsky trotted up the back stairs that led from the kitchen to the upstairs, hunting for the woman and her infant. There was no exit on the second floor; the stairway led directly to a door that opened on the third. He stepped out into a hallway fronting more bedrooms. With only setting sunlight left, he used his flashlight full-time. Starsky hardly felt he needed it, though, since he’d been through this house more times than he’d looked over his present apartment before he’d rented it.

A groan caught his attention. Starsky tried to get a fix on it. A muffled—something—came from the bedroom to his left. He rolled his shoulder, shifting the leather holster into position. He slipped the flashlight into his right hand, and moved toward the room.

“Hello? Ma’am?” He called. “Police. I’m here to help you.” Starsky reached the door and gripped the doorknob.

The bedroom door opened easily.

Another moan.

Starsky swept his light over the room.

Hutch was sitting on the side of a bed. He was leaning back, braced with his left arm against the mattress. His right hand held his cock, rising from between the opened fly of his corduroys.

Hutch slid his fist up and down the length of his penis, squeezing the base, stretching the glans tight. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed. Guttural moans and groans emanated from his throat.

“Hutch?” Starsky blinked in surprise. “What are you doing?”

Hutch started as if awoken from a deep sleep. He straightened up, opening his eyes to look at Starsky. His hand remained wrapped around his penis.

Starsky felt himself blush. “I mean—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry I—“ he paused. “I mean we’re kind of on the job here,” he stammered. He quickly moved the hard circle of light from his flashlight to the floor.

Hutch didn’t speak. He rose, his pants down about his hips, his cock still erect.

“Hutch?” Starsky took a step forward. “You okay?”

Hutch responded by removing his jacket, then unbuttoning his holster and tossing both to the bed.

Bafflement replaced embarrassment. “Uh, Hutch, why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go back down to the car.”

“Car’s too cramped,” Hutch said.

Starsky took a moment to think. "Ok,” he said slowly. “How about if I go down to the car, and you come when you’re ready?”

Hutch smiled. Starsky blushed.

Starsky took a step backward this time. “Tell you what, I’ll just leave you alone here to finish up what you’re doing. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Starsky,” Hutch breathed. He held out his arms.

Starsky didn’t move.

“Please,” Hutch entreated. “For both of us.”

A warmth suffused Starsky’s body, making him feel flushed and a little dizzy. His flashlight fell from fingers that suddenly hadn’t the strength to hold its weight.

Hutch motioned him closer. Starsky took in a breath of air that suffused his body with a feeling of faintness. Rational thought was pushed out of his brain. Primal urge took its place.

Starsky walked into Hutch’s embrace.

Hutch nuzzled against Starsky’s neck, his lips nipping at the smooth flesh. Hutch’s hands pushed Starsky’s jacket off, then fumbled to remove Starsky’s holster.

Starsky leaned into Hutch. He felt Hutch’s erection pressing against his groin. One, two, three heartbeats and his own penis was straining against his jeans.

Sensation seizeded sanity and strangled it. Starsky’s hand slipped up to Hutch’s back, stroking the large muscles, tracing their definition. Fingers longed for closer contact. He tugged at Hutch’s shirt.

Hutch responded by ripping at Starsky’s own shirt, tugging and tussling until both their torsos were bared. Hutch took Starsky’s face in his hands and brought their mouths together.

Hutch lips were hungry, his tongue insistent. His tongue probed Starsky’s mouth, exploring and  investigating. Then he reversed the suction and drew Starsky’s tongue into his mouth.

Starsky groaned and sagged against Hutch. Sensation overrode any conscious thought. Hutch’s hand had slid down to his jeans and freed Starsky’s cock, causing his entire body to tremble.

With one hand Hutch held the back of Starsky’s head, keeping his lips tightly sealed against Starsky’s mouth. With the other hand, Hutch squeezed and pumped and stroked Starsky’s cock. Hutch’s own cock bobbed up and down between their groins. For Starsky’s part, all he could do was grip Hutch’s upper arms and hang on tightly, trying to maintain his precarious balance.

Heat encased Starsky’s body; blood pounded through his veins; spasms overtook his limbs.

Aware that something was filling his heart in a place that he’d never even been conscious of, Starsky let out a guttural cry,

 

 

“Starsky!” Hutch called again.

He heard Starsky let out a guttural cry.

It seemed to come from the library.

Hutch whirled and clutched at the library door handles, twisting and tugging with all his strength. As if pulling against a vacuum, he forced a door open and threw himself inside.

But as before, the room was empty. Hutch stood still in the middle of the room. Slowly, his used his flashlight to paint the walls and floor, looking for anything. The light froze as he heard a low moan coming from behind him. Hutch swung the light around to the far corner behind and to his right. A body was curled tightly in the corner. Hutch dropped the flashlight.

Hutch closed the distance between them and knelt beside the body. A trembling hand gripped the shoulder and pulled the body to its back. “Starsky?” Hutch whispered.

Starsky rolled to his back stiffly, holding his hands tight against his abdomen. A horrible, terrible groan accompanied the movement. The yellow light from the abandoned flashlight was just enough to reveal the red staining Starsky’s shirt and jacket.

Hutch grabbed at Starsky’s clenched hands and forced them away from his body. Details were impossible to see, but Hutch’s hands were already covered in blood and ragged flaps of flesh stuck to his fingers. He could feel the sticky slickness of intestines and other internal organs. Instinct forced his hand on top of them, pushing them in, keeping pressure on the gaping wound. His hand couldn’t begin to cover the gouged flesh.

Acid burned Hutch’s throat. He swallowed it back down. He used his free hand to feel his way to Starsky’s throat, searching for a pulse, finding nothing. His fingers slid up to Starsky’s cheek, cold and clammy. Hutch leaned over his partner, his ear to Starsky’s chest. Nothing. He moved upward to listen at Starsky’s mouth. Nothing.

He no longer felt the pumping of blood into the hand holding Starsky’s guts. It just seeped over his fingers, wet and sticky.

“Starsky!” It was a ragged whisper.

now see what you’ve done? the voice asked.

Hutch’s head whipped around, his eyes blazing.

you never seem to learn. you never seem to learn that misbehavior results in punishment.

Hutch sagged to a sitting position. He looked back down at the limp body next to him. Slowly, he reached down and lifted the torso into his arms, dragging it into an embrace. Hutch pressed his face into sweat-drenched curls. A grizzly mass of internal organs, warm and wet, oozed between their bodies.

maybe this time you’ll remember my rules. The voice was clearly pleased with itself. do you think you can remember my rules now?

Hutch gently lowered the body back to the stained floor. He brushed the damp curls from its face, and let the back of his hand caress the cooling cheek.

Hutch became still. Slowly, his body seemed to harden. He stood up, purposefully and gracefully, a solid and powerful mass.

just what do you think you’re doing? standing up to me? The voice was actually mirthful!

Hutch took a deliberate step toward the voice.

come on then, little boy. come on then, little man, the voice taunted.

Hutch took another step forward.

let’s take this to another level, the voice continued. Footsteps from just outside the door moved to the stairs and walked up.

Hutch lifted his arm and slipped it inside his jacket. He removed the Magnum from its holster, slid the safety back, and chambered a bullet. He held the weapon against his chest, against his heart, and automatically followed the footsteps.

 

The other man’s footsteps were always just ahead of him, just out of visual contact. Hutch’s steps were steady, determined, and purposeful as he was led up to the attic of the house.

The trap door was opened and the stairs pulled down when Hutch came to the attic opening. His Magnum still clutched to his chest, he climbed the wooden steps into the attic.

It was as empty as it had been during previous examinations. The setting sun blazed through the only window, illuminating the dusty and dirty area. The window was open, as the very former occupant of the attic had not been able to close it.

A shadow crossed between the window and Hutch. Hutch leveled his gun and went into a shooting stance.

“Show yourself!” Hutch yelled, unaware of the ludicrousness of the statement. There was nowhere for anyone to hide up here.

big man with a big gun, the voice taunted. The voice now came from over in the corner. Hutch spun to confront it.

The baritone voice invaded Hutch’s brain and sent constricting tendrils around his heart. A black specter drifted in the corner.

are you going to just stand there, or are you going to shoot? The voice inquired. or are you just too much of a coward to do anything but cry?

Hutch was suddenly aware his eyes were burning, and tears had worn wet streaks down his cheeks. His face burned, whether from anger or shame he wasn’t sure.

cry baby the voice pronounced.

Hutch emptied his gun.

Shots reverberated in the empty room. Wood chips went flying.

Hutch howled.

The black shape flowed along the wall. Now the figure stood in front of the window.

missed! it derided.

Hutch flung the Magnum at the black shadow in blind anger. The gun went sailing out through the window in a long arc.

you throw like a girl it sneered.

Hutch cried out again, and charged the blackness.

 

 

Starsky’s eyes snapped open.

_What the hell…?_

He felt dazed, drugged. The bedroom was barren—no bed, no Hutch. Starsky blinked stupidly. He looked around the room. The flashlight was lying by the door to the bedroom. He was fully clothed.

The poppoppop of a gun went off above Starsky’s head. Starsky heard Hutch howl. In one single, swift movement he whirled, scooped up the flashlight, and sped toward the sound of his partner’s voice.

 

 

Starsky raced around the hallway and up the waiting attic stairs. He paused when his upper body poked up into the barren mansard, taking a split second to bring his gun, both hands gripping it, into position, arms resting on the attic floor. Starsky blinked quickly to adjust to the brilliant shaft of sunlight that lasered through the window.

“Hutch!” Quick, Clipped, desperate.

Hutch stood in the middle of the room, staring at the window.

Starsky lifted his body off its resting place and climbed into the room. Starsky aimed the barrel of his gun off to the side, away from Hutch. His head moved to survey the empty room, his gun never wavering. All he could see was a panting, trembling, crying Hutch.

“Hutch!” Starsky moved slowly toward his partner. He let go of his gun with his right hand, offering it to Hutch. His left kept the weapon level, but pointed off to the side. “What’s going on?”

Hutch hurled his Magnum out through the open window.

“Hutch!” Starsky shouted. “What are you doing!”

Hutch cried out, and charged the window.

Practice trains the mind and the muscles. It teaches the brain/body bond to skip the preliminaries, transcend the conscious, and act without thought. Limbs will jump into action years after the brain has believed the performance to be lost.

Starsky backslid to his youth and launched a flying tackle at the suddenly catapulting Hutch. The force of the drive caught Hutch in his side and propelled them into the wall next to the opened window. Both bodies were momentarily pinned against he wall by centripetal(?) force, then slid onto the floor.

Hutch groaned and clutched at the injured shoulder that had just been re-injured by the unexpected ramming. Starsky continued to hold Hutch around the waist, pulling them both into a seated position.

“What?” Starsky finally gasped. “What—happened?”

Hutch looked at Starsky stupidly. “What?”

“Yes! What!” Starsky eased up on his grip, but kept his hold on Hutch. “What were you doing?”

Hutch shook his head. He frowned. “I don’t know.” He turned to look at Starsky. “What were you doing?”

“Keeping you from jumping out the window!” Starsky looked both surprised and exasperated.

“I was?” Hutch blinked. “I was.” He suddenly freed himself from Starsky’s clench and grabbed Starsky’s jacket lapels, pulling the jacket away from Starsky’s body and scrutinizing his torso.

Starsky—again—grabbed Hutch’s upper arms for balance. “What?”

Hutch placed his palm on Starsky chest and moved it around, feeling for—anything.

“You’re all right,” Hutch whispered, amazed.

“Yeah,” Starsky slowly agreed. His eyes narrowed, and he searched Hutch’s face for signs of--arousal. “Are you?”

Hutch released Starsky and sat on the floor. “I don’t know.” He eyes burned with confusion. “What just happened here?”

Starsky thought a moment. “I heard you yell. I heard you fire. I ran up here and you were headed for the window.”

Hutch took a breath. “I heard you yell, too. A woman and a baby?”

Starsky nodded. “I saw a woman and a baby, but they—“ he stopped. “What did you see?”

Hutch shook his head, puzzled. “I—I didn’t see anybody. I just heard a voice.”

“The woman’s?” Starsky asked.

“No,” Hutch paused. “I’m not sure whose it was,” he lied. “You yelled about the woman, and then later you made this funny yell from upstairs—“

Starsky interrupted quickly, his face flushing. “You were downstairs?”

“Yeah,” Hutch’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were downstairs, but I heard you upstairs.”

“I was upstairs,” Starsky confirmed. “I thought you were upstairs, too.”

“No.” Hutch looked Starsky straight in the eyes. “I was downstairs.”

They stared at each other. As one they suddenly rose, helping each other to their feet.

“My gun,” Starsky walked over to his piece, retrieved and holstered it. “Let’s go get your gun.”

Hutch looked over at the window. Then he turned back to Starsky. “What happened here?”

Starsky met his bewildered gaze. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “But I’d damn well rather figure it out anywhere **but** here.”

Hutch rolled his aching shoulder and rubbed it. “Worst fears,” he mumbled.

Starsky frowned at him. _Deepest longings is more like it,_ Starsky thought, but he remained silent.

They left the house by the front door as quickly as they could.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
